He kneels at her knees, kissing the tips of her outstretched fingers and asks for her to understand, his eyes trying to pierce her lazy shell of attentive disregard. Why did her hair have to be so fair? Her eyes so shattering green? Why did she have to jibe him so, with careful, nonchalant affection and attention? Why did she have to act as if everything he did made complete sense? Why was she so uncautious with her laughing at his humour, so willing to kiss his lips? So Wussup? with his friends. So giddy with his arrival?
It was shameful, the way she answered his questions, carefully, trustingly, openly: answered as if she cared for his listening. It was horrific, the way she undressed for him, made love to him with insanely, unbearably perfect levels of passion. Why did she pretend to love him, when it was an obvious lie? Why did she tell him so with no regard to his feelings? If he was so wonderful why did he he make her so happy? How could this be the case? She wasn't in love with him. The best that could happen was that she was in love towards him. Like the leaning of ladder towards a window, and not quite meeting it. She tried to love him. But she could never understand. She was not between the lines, the way the rest of them had been. Obviously. Obviously. He thought of the myriad ways she alwys demonstrated her undeniable, circumambient honesty
and then , in a moment of panic it sparked in his mind, a grand epiphany, as beautiful as the smoothness of her body against his, as striking as the warmth of her breath and heart and words. She did understand. Completely. And that meant -- he sank his head into his hands. She laughs, with the irony of it all, as he looks up into her eyes, and kisses her fingertips goodbye. He realizes, as he is about to leave: there is no need to say farewell.